THE TREE I COULDN'T SAVE

 4262

For multiplied years I have driven past several acres of pasture land on my way to this or that business or restaurant in my hometown; about eight miles from my current residence.

And for years, I have noticed a large sign in that grassy field which claimed a nearby church would soon be relocating to that particular intersection. (Funny, how many times I have seen similar signs which made the same claim, but which, ultimately, faded out and were removed, or simply fell into disrepair).

And for years, as I made my way past that intersection, I admired a beautiful little oak tree growing about thirty feet from the barbed wire fence which bordered the two roads.

In recent years, I noticed an unusual amount of Spanish Moss hanging from this oak tree, and seemingly more every time I drove by the pasture. It is rare to see a Florida oak tree without moss hanging from its branches, but it is equally rare to see one absolutely overwhelmed with this parasitic growth.

As a result of the ‘assault’ of the Spanish Moss on the pretty little oak tree, I finally decided to do something about it.

As I drove by the spot one day, I jotted down the phone number listed on the sign, and, subsequently, I called the church office, and asked to speak to the pastor.

“Hi, I’m Bill McDonald. This may sound a little strange, but I noticed that lone oak tree in the pasture where you hope to relocate your church is covered up with moss. It’s just such a beautiful tree. I’d like to do something about it. Would you mind if I attempt to get the moss out of it?”

To which “Pastor Franklin” responded,

“Hmmm, I suppose that would be alright.”

And having had a moment to digest my request, he added,

“But I don’t want you to climb up into the tree. You know, there would be a liability issue for the church if you fell.”

I acquiesced, and assured the pastor that I would keep my feet on solid ground.

Pt. 2

A couple days later, I bought one of those extendable poles with a claw on the end, and which was specifically designed to pull moss out of trees. The following Saturday I loaded myself, the pole and very little else into my car, and set a course for the little moss-covered oak tree in the pasture.

Having arrived I parked my car next to the fence, got out, retrieved my claw pole, (for lack of a better moniker), tossed it in the direction of the tree, gingerly lifted the barbed wire, and navigated my way between the offending barbs.

With this, I extended the pole, tightened the locking mechanism, and set to work pulling moss out of the little oak tree. I found myself frustrated with how much moss hung in the branches, and how little of it I was able to pull down with each attempt. Even more frustrating my realization that as long as the pole was, I could only reach halfway up the twenty foot tall tree.

The pile of moss increased, and occasionally I stopped to put the parasitic stuff in plastic bags. As the sun rose higher in the sky, I felt increasingly thirsty. And since I hadn’t brought a thermos, I made my way back towards the fence, reversed my course through the barbed wire fence, walked across the street, and entered a corner convenience store where I bought a fountain drink.

I hadn’t accounted for the lack of hydration which a soft drink affords, and as I set back to work fatigue and thirst overwhelmed me. Ignoring these troublesome symptoms, I continued to drag down moss from the little oak tree.

By the time I finished what I was capable of finishing, I had managed to decrease the overall bulk of Spanish Moss by perhaps a third, perhaps a bit more. As I stacked the twelve or fourteen huge plastic bags by the road, I found myself wishing I had brought a ladder; in spite of the pastor’s admonition, and my promise not to do so.

Pt. 3

Driving home, I felt like I was going to pass out, and when I arrived home all I could do was plop down on the sofa. I felt like I was about 3 minutes from death, when my wife began to pour water down my gullet. I think it would be fair to characterize my condition that day as suffering from a sun stroke. I vowed I would never ever take on a task like this one again without bringing an ample supply of cold water with me.

As the days and weeks and months tick toked along, as they always do, and as I continued to drive past that beautiful little oak tree, it began displaying increasing signs of distress. Not only was the moss regenerating itself in the places I managed to strip it from the limbs, but the leaves of the tree, what leaves you could see, took on a sickly brown hue; until all that was left was a skeleton of its former self.

And with the advance of years, this sad shadow of that beautiful little oak tree continued to stand alone with wisps of Spanish Moss hanging from its skinny branches. And I can barely look at it as I pass by.

It may seem a bit strange, but more than once, as I drove past the tree, I have glanced at it, and said,

“I did what I could. It was simply not enough.”

(and)

“I (literally) almost gave my life for your life.”

Perhaps I’m too sensitive about the welfare of trees and animals in my sphere of influence. Perhaps I’m not always sensitive enough about the welfare of my fellow human beings.

And yet, I have often thought that flora and fauna have very little wherewithal to choose right from wrong, or to protect themselves from anything, whereas people do, and as a result of their bad choices, they sometimes find themselves in a world of hurt.

 

When it is all said and done, I’m glad I did what I could to save that lovely little oak tree in the pasture.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD   

MY TAMPA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT VERSION OF THE TWILIGHT ZONE. Pts. 1-6

 4261

Pt. 1

I expect the title of this story would give anyone pause since the average reader would be prone to reflect, 

"Oh c'mon. What about a visit to an average metropolitan airport could possibly merit that sort of lead in?" (and) "You realize that 'The Twilight Zone' was a fictional TV series about other worldly events which almost certainly could not happen, but were produced for entertainment value."

And to be sure, I have watched enough of those old segments of that classic series to concur with you. 

And yet...

Well, this past Sunday I was scheduled to pick up my wife at Tampa International Airport. She was returning from Massachusetts on a United Airlines flight; having spent ten days with our daughter and grandson. Although I was employed with UPS for twenty years, and delivered hundreds of thousands of packages to multiplied thousands of addresses, Jean had given me specific details about the preferred route to this metropolitan airport, (though we had been there several times in the past).

Things fell together pretty well over the course of the first hour. Traffic was backed up on I-4, which wasn't a pleasurable experience, but I took that facet of the trip for granted. Other than the driver of a late model sedan taking it on himself to motor along the unfinished left limestone shoulder of the interstate, in an attempt to make up some time, things went as I might have expected.

Okay. Fifty minutes have elapsed, and I'm in Ybor City. Check. Now I see the sign indicating that I'm approaching I-275. I move into one of the two left lanes. Check. The multiplied skyscrapers of Tampa appear on my left. Check. Seven or eight miles on I-275, and the exit for Tampa International Airport appears on the horizon; directly in front of my silver 2015 Nissan Altima. Check. 

Pt. 2

As I follow the airport signs, I can almost hear my wife's voice,

"When you turn right off the interstate, stay right! If you don't, you'll find yourself on a very long bridge to Clearwater!"

However, in spite of this recollection, I find a way to do exactly what she warned me to avoid doing. Twenty yards before all hope was lost, the road splits. Looking quickly into my rearview and passenger mirrors, I quickly put the nose of my automobile into the lane to my right. "Saved by the bell!" 

Five minutes later, I see a sign for the Cell Phone Parking Lot. Check. One hour and five minutes elapsed time from my home outside Winter Haven to the "Wait 'til You Hear from Your Loved One" Tampa International Airport temporary parking lot. 

I text Jean after my arrival, though I knew her aircraft was not due for another 20 minutes. However, now looking down at my cell phone, just 12 minutes later I notice a message. 

"We are on the ground. I will let you know when I pick up my bags."

And about this time, I realize that my volume is turned down. And I think,

"I could have sworn I turned it up."

But be that as it may, after waiting another 15 minutes I receive the go ahead from my wife.

Another text

"Okay. You can come get me" (and) "Remember, I will be at the United Airlines arrival area."

And it was about this time that I enter the Tampa International Airport version of the Twilight Zone!

Pt. 3

Now, I pull out of the Cell Phone Parking Lot, and turn right. Check. However, as I reach the first intersection, there seems to be no apparent directional clue. I can go left. I can go right. I can continue driving forward. I opt for forward. (I opt wrong). I find myself driving into a parallel series of eight lanes of one way traffic, each with a railroad style crossing gate; offering access to whatever lay beyond. I realize I am driving into the outer perimeter of a high price airport hotel. And I think, 

"Well, that's not good."

And since I have no intention of checking into the Hyatt or Mariott, or whatever moniker this particular hotel bears on it's impressive ten story wall, (I can't see the logo from here), I do a U-turn, and proceed, against traffic, towards the boulevard from whence I came. Thankfully, I navigate the fifty feet which lay before me, and civilization as I know it; without causing a major accident.

And as I reach the intersection, I look to my right, and notice some far off tell tale signs which signify aircraft departures and arrivals. Of course, at this point I don't need any additional prompts. And now, it seems my quest is in sight. I select one.

"Arrivals. Express Lanes"

I pull into a congested area, and coast up behind a stopped car. A woman greets her boyfriend (or husband) with a kiss, and he takes a carry on bag from her. I notice a series of consecutive, small numbered signs ten feet above the street. 107, 108, 109. However, familiar words such as "United Airlines," "Southwest Airlines," "Sprint," etc. are nowhere to be seen.

I drive away, and as I leave the immediate area, I dial my wife's cell number. 

"Uhmmm, I thought I was in the right place, but I don't see you. There's only numbered signs, but I noticed people getting into cars."

Jean responds.

"You are in the Express Arrival area. Stay there! I can take an elevator to you. I'll be there in just a minute."

I am forced to tell her that I am driving away from the Express Arrival area. Needless to say, she's not a happy camper.

Pt. 4

"Just make a circle, and come back, and I'll be up there when you return."

I acknowledge her request, and begin my circuitous route from whence I came. However, (and it's a very big "however"), I find a handy dandy way to get lost simply going back to the spot in the road from which I just departed.

This time around I find myself driving into a similar passenger zone, but this time around, rather than numbered signs, I see signs which identify the various airlines. Eureka!!!

Uhmmm, not so fast...

Whereas, I see a sign bearing the words "United Airlines," the "d word" just beneath the title of the airline, strikes me cold... 

"Departure"

Again, I begin to recreate my circuitous route. This time around, I don't bother my wife with this slight irregularity.

I look around frantically for a sign which indicates the names of the various airlines with the ever so important words, "Arrivals - Full Service." 

My cell phone rings, and I answer it.

"Where are you? I told you that I'd take the elevator up to 'Departures.' I'm waiting for you here."

By now my frustration level is around a 257 on a scale of 100.

"Uhhh, you know that old joke about 'You can't get there from here?'"

(And, with this, I continue my lame attempt at humor).

"You know how you originally told me you had thought about taking an Uber to Hardrock Casino, and meeting me there? Well..."

(and)

"No, hang loose. I should be there in a couple of minutes."

(Shoulda. Woulda, Coulda).

Pt. 5

You remember those words which Rod Serling used to say at the beginning of each Twilight Zone segment?

"There's the sign post up ahead. It's the Twilight Zone."

Well, now I find myself moving progressively deeper into the Tampa International Airport version of the Twilight Zone.

I see various signs above the streets indicating the names of various airlines, the words "Express" and "Arrivals" and "Departures" and the like. However, by now I experience what I can only characterize as Short Term Dementia. At this point, I am SO frustrated that I feel like I am reading Greek. 

For you see, by this time I have entered the one way entrance into the Long Term Parking Garage! (Funny, I hadn't seen that particular sign before). Now, I am seeing it up close. My cell phone rings again. I quickly answer it with, 

"I can't talk now."

Stopping at the entrance gate, the sign on the self service kiosk informs me that I should wave my hand in front of a sensor. I comply, and a ticket pops out. I drive up the ramp to the top floor, and begin to make my way towards the exit.

As I near eight or ten exit booths, (some actually manned by human beings), I choose one titled, "Customer Service." A middle aged black gentleman takes my ticket, and I immediately make him aware that I have occupied his Long Term Parking Garage for all of 3 1/2 minutes, never stopping, and that I have been attempting to get to my wife at the United Airlines Full Service Arrival area, and could he point me in the right direction?

Apparently, "Mr. Weaver" has encountered this situation in the past. He laughs and says,

"Not to worry. You'll want to drive up that middle ramp about 50 yards ahead. See the sign?"

(I almost tell him that I am just about "signed out").

As I thank the man for his patience, he tips his hat, and says, "Be blessed." (I almost tell him that, "At the moment, I feel anything but 'blessed'").

I begin my short trek towards the sign, (there's that word again), which my short term friend indicated a few seconds earlier.

Don't you dare ask me how, but instead of driving up the middle ramp, (you know, the middle ramp), I find myself circumnavigating the Long Term Parking Garage entrance ramp (again)! Driving up to the same self service kiosk, I reluctantly wave my hand in front of the sensor, and receive another ticket. 

I am SO desperately frustrated that I momentarily think about throwing my car in reverse, and doing one of those standing start, tires smoking, 180's like you see in the movies. (Of course, this would have me meeting and greeting incoming traffic, and I immediately surmise that it would be marginally better for me to drive through the Long Term Parking Garage (again).

Pt. 6

Completing my 3.5 minute (lack of) joy ride, I aim my silver 2015 Nissan Altima towards Mr. Weaver's Customer Service Booth (again). 

Just before I reach the afore mentioned little domicile, my cell phone rings, and a familiar female voice says, 

"Where in the world are you? You left the Cell Phone Parking Lot 35 minutes ago, and it's only a two minute drive!"

Mr. Weaver peers into my vehicle, and grins. I give him my ticket, and what amounts to a three way conversation begins.

"I'm sorry, honey. I just finished driving through the Long Term Parking Garage twice in 7 minutes. (Maybe you could take a taxi over here to meet me)!"

Now, Mr. Weaver speaks.

"Man, that gal is 'fit to be tied.' Ain't gonna be no honeymoon tonight! You better go retrieve her. Do I need to draw you a map?"

With this, I merely say,

"Did you tell me to take that middle ramp over there?

He shakes his head, and points.

"Yep. Take the only middle ramp that's dead center between the left ramp and the right ramp."

I thank him, and once again my increasingly good friend says,

"Yes sir. Be blessed!"

Now, I continue my conversation with my wife.

"You sure you don't want to meet me at the Cell Phone Parking Lot?"

(and)

"I'm pretty sure I can get to the Express Arrival area again, if you could take the elevator up to my level."

And with this, I hear her sigh. And now, I hear luggage wheels rolling along the airport floor.

Jean speaks.

"Okay. Now, look. When you get there. STAY THERE!!! I'll find you. Do not pass go. Do not go to jail. Do not collect 100 dollars. Got it?"

Afterward

Dear readers, I am happy to tell you that my wife and I are experiencing an uneventful trip home. (Oh, perhaps I should tell you. My wife is behind the wheel).

And thus concludes this segment of The Tampa International Airport version of The Twilight Zone.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

ONE WOMAN'S EXPERIENCE IN A PUBLIC RESTROOM

 4261

When you have to visit a public bathroom, you usually find a line of women, so you smile politely and take your place.

Once it's your turn, you check for feet under the stall doors. Every stall is occupied.

Finally, a door opens, and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall.

You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter, the wait has been so long you are about to wet your pants!

The dispenser for the modern "seat covers" (invented by someone's Mom, no doubt) is handy, but empty.

You would hang your purse on the door hook, if there was one, but there isn't - so you carefully, but quickly drape it around your neck, (Mom would turn over in her grave if you put it on the FLOOR!), yank down your pants, and assume " The Stance."

In this position your aging, toneless (God I should have gone to the gym!!!) thigh muscles begin to shake.

You'd love to sit down, but you certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold "The Stance".

To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mother's voice saying, "Honey, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!" Your thighs shake more.

You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday - the one that's still in your purse. (Oh yeah, the purse around your neck, that now, you have to hold up trying not to strangle yourself at the same time). That will have to do. You crumple it in the puffiness way possible. It's still smaller than your thumbnail.

Someone pushes your door open because the latch doesn't work.

The door hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of your chest, and you and your purse topple backward against the tank of the toilet.

"Occupied!" you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, lose your footing altogether, and slide down directly onto the TOILET SEAT.

It is wet of course.

You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper - not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try.

You know that your mother would be utterly appalled if she knew, because you're certain her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat because, frankly, dear, "You just don't KNOW what kind of diseases you could get".

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose against the inside of the bowl that sprays a fine mist of water that covers your butt and runs down your legs and into your shoes.

The flush somehow sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too.

At this point, you give up. You're soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat.

You're e-x-h-a-u-s-t-e-d.

You try to wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks.

You can't figure out how to operate the faucets with the automatic sensors, .....so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the line of women still waiting.

You are no longer able to smile politely to them

A kind soul at the very end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. (Where was that when you NEEDED it??) You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the woman's hand and tell her warmly, "Here, you just might need this".

As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used, and left the men's restroom.

Annoyed, he asks, "What took you so long, and why is your purse hanging around your neck?" ...........

This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with a public restrooms (rest??? you've GOT to be kidding!!). It finally explains to the men what really does take us so long. It also answers their other commonly asked questions about why women go to the restroom in pairs. It's so the other gal can hold the door, hang onto your purse, and hand you Kleenex under the door!

Send this to all women that understand what bonding in the bathroom is all about!

(From a social media post)